When my daughter was just a toddler, she began to dress herself. Of course, it had hit and miss days. This day, she would be appropriate, that day she would be attempting to go out doors in 50 degree weather in shorts and a tank top.
So, one day, her mother was off at school, I had the day off, and Brenda came downstairs in long pants, over which she was wearing a dress. Overtop this she had a long sleeved blouse, which was peeking out from beneath a sweater.
I stopped her. “Honey, you need to dress in one outfit, not several. You look like a bag lady.”
At three, she had her own mind. “I’m NOT a bag lady!”
I agreed. “That’s true, but you are dressed like you were a bag lady. Go back to your room, take that stuff off, dress in one outfit, and put the rest of the clothes away.”
She crossed her arms, and laid down the law. “I am *NOT* a bag lady!”
I repeated myself. “honey, I realize that you are not a bag lady, but you are dressed in something like a bag lady uniform. Now, go back upstairs, select one outfit, wear that outfit, put the rest of those clothes away neatly, and come back downstairs. You cannot go out dressed like you were a bag lady!”
She set her feet, crossed her arms, cocked her head, and set me straight.
“I’m *NOT* a bag lady, you fat old man!”